


Shaken

by Cuidightheach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Bartender Draco Malfoy, Draco and Ron are friends, Draco does Harry's job but in French, Family members dying, Grief/Mourning, Harry doesn't know what feelings are, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Death, Seriously excuse my french i used google translate and luck, Single Parent Draco Malfoy, Slice of Life, Undercover Missions, Widower Draco, draco has a cat, harry is lonely, teddy lupin is adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25352272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuidightheach/pseuds/Cuidightheach
Summary: Draco Malfoy was doing the exact same job as Harry, and in some instances, he was doing it better.A story in which life, death and time convince two people that they aren't so different after all.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 171





	Shaken

**Author's Note:**

> For Matti, who puts up with me when I spew Drarry headcannons at them for hours. This was supposed to be a short jaunt about bartending and aurors, but it turned out to be wayyy more sweet and soft. Significant payback for your angsty Draco videos, I suppose. Ta!

_November 25. 2005_

“Don’t be mad.”

“I won’t be fucking mad, Ron.”

“Promise me you won’t get angry and blow the whole case.” 

“Blow the case? I’m an investigative Auror, Ronald. Cut me some slack.” 

“ _Promise._ ”

“Fine. I promise.”

-

Harry Potter slipped his wand into a covert holster and checked his reflection again. His hair was tousled stylishly, his boots were worn dragonhide and his button-down shirt was silky and half-open. The glamour he wore changed his features just enough to hide his identity, giving him a smaller nose, deep brown eyes, a waxy complexion, and a smaller, redder mouth. And, of course, there was no garish lightning-bolt scar to speak of. He looked dangerous and dark. He looked… Well, he looked perfectly fit for an undercover potions bust at Hemlock’s Kiss, the sleaziest bar in Knockturn. Ron voiced as much as he entered their little office, his eyes glittering conspiratorially. 

“Blimey Harry, when did you get so dashing?” He flashed a brilliant smile at Harry and wagged his eyebrows. 

“Shove off, I don’t even look like me,” Harry replied, pulling his eyes from the strange figure in the mirror. 

“Wouldn’t be too sure. Our inside bloke will recognize you in a heartbeat,” Ron sniffed, then pulled his wand out from underneath his red Auror robes.

“Inside bloke. Right. And how am _I_ supposed to recognize _him_?” Harry asked as he let Ron cast protective spells and tracking charms over him. The magic settled into his skin with a quiet sizzle. 

“Oh, trust Merlin, you will,” Ron laughed, then quieted as Harry glared. “Just say the code to the bartender, then you two will pounce when the time is right.” 

“Sure, of course. And sending me into a pit of vipers without telling me who I’ll be working with is still, to this very moment, the most brilliant idea you lot have ever had.” Harry rolled his eyes and took in the disheveled appearance of their office as he closed the door behind him. It was still covered in the files from the last case they had, and they had barely gotten enough time to breathe before they were thrown into the thick of the illicit potions trade-- a case they had been slowly investigating for just over a year. Tonight, hopefully, would be the end to a wild goose chase, and the beginning of some well-deserved time off.

“Hey, I don’t make the rules, just play by ‘em.” Ron shrugged, pulling Harry into a side-along as he spoke. The sudden apparition barely impacted the conversation, and Harry continued to grouse as they landed. 

“Actually, mate, you literally made that exact rule. That was all you.” 

“I’m not arguing with you on the clock,” Ron barely glanced down at Harry, who was trying to look petulant and annoyed. 

“I’m not arguing! Just reminding you that I ca-” Harry cut short as he saw Jason Fucking Duchene scuttle into Hemlock’s Kiss. The lights of the street were dim, reflecting blearily off the wet cobblestones, but Harry knew that awful man’s gait anywhere. He’d been following Jason for eight long, horrid months. “Duchene.” Harry whispered, and his distaste bled into his tone. 

“Go get’em Harry,” Ron encouraged, and Harry nodded. “We’ve got four officers waiting for your cue inside, and two waiting out here with me.” Ron cast a light mind link and tested it before Harry turned and walked towards the door. As he pushed on the solid wood, he faintly heard Ron’s voice echo in his head-

_Don’t be angry, don’t be angry, don’t be angry…_

-

The door swung open, and not a single head turned to watch as he sidled through the dark musty room. The music and general revelry of the place hurt his ears, and he swallowed down the thick scent of cheap whiskey and bitter herbs that smoked in the mouths of the patrons. Across the room, Harry thought he could see a figure that looked like officer Chang, but he couldn’t be sure in the dim lighting. He slowly worked his way to the bar, glancing at faces and listening to the conversations as he passed. Jason Duchene had already disappeared. A pair of rotten looking blokes were fighting over a card game. A dame in a shimmering black dress was lounging in a booth, two foolish half-dressed men promising her riches and fame in return for her “gifts.” A goblin was talking to a scared young wizard, waving his hands and sneering. Harry catalogued it all back to Ron as he walked. He took one last quick glance around the floor before he reached the bar, noted that there were three strong-looking guards in front of the back door, and then he looked up to meet the man he was here for. But there was nobody behind the bar. 

Harry only panicked for a second, but it was long enough to throw him even further off guard when a tall, lithe blond waltzed through the swinging doors that lead from the storage rooms of the establishment. 

_Motherfu_ \- Harry began, and all of his instincts spurred into overdrive.

 _You promised!_ Ron’s voice echoed through his mind, and Harry let his hand fall from where his wand was. He had promised. Christ. 

Draco Malfoy was holding a gorgeous bottle of liquor, a full peach on display at the bottom of the bottle. He smiled brightly at the older wizard he was helping, and Harry seethed. Malfoy looked entirely too perfect in this setting. His hair was hanging just past his chin now, still silver blond and pompous as always. Half of it was dragged back, tied with a thin leather band, and pieces were hanging into his face, effortlessly framing his features and narrowly walking the line between messy and mouthwatering. He wore a white shirt underneath a steely grey waistcoat, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbow, leaving the evil blotch of ink there on display. He looked devilish as he poured the drink into a crystal sherry glass. And then he looked up at Harry, and his easy smile flickered. 

Harry wandlessly cast a silencing charm over himself, and watched as Malfoy sneered at the display. It only took a few moments for him to come and stand in front of Harry’s stool, but the seconds dragged in Harry’s mind. There was no way he would-

“Can I help you, sir?” Malfoy offered humbly, as though Harry wasn’t two moves from tearing his throat out and leaving the country, let alone the case. 

“No. Not particularly thirsty tonight,” he assured, letting his tone slip into a viciousness that he coveted for special occasions. 

Malfoy looked him up and down slowly, analyzing every curve and movement. “Nor I,” he said, shrugging. “Distaste isn’t quite as striking on this face, lovely as it is.” Malfoy mused, and Harry bristled at the criticism, as backhanded as it was. Raucous laughter burst from a far table, and Harry flinched at the interruption. 

_Give him the bloody link._ Ron’s voice whispered violently into Harry’s brain, and he flinched again. 

_And let Malfoy in my brain? I’m going to fucking murder you Ronald Weasley._

_Harry, mate, just do your job and I’ll explain later._ Ron sounded frantic, and Harry was nearly guilted into following directions, but then the back door slammed open and Jason Duchene slithered in. He was flanked by two of the huge bodyguards, and he was beelining for Harry. 

_Fuck._ Harry tensed. _Fucking Fuck._ He added, for good measure. He felt every step of Duchene’s poncy boots as they clicked towards him. He could see it all now- Duchene’s wand raised on his back, the green light, the pain and the nothingness. 

“I’ll have a Vodka-” Harry started, but then he was cut off, and he was dead. He was so, so dead. Harry braced for the impact, his wand clutched tightly and his prayers halfway sent… but nothing happened. No green light, no blanket of death. Instead, Jason Duchene leaned over the counter next to Harry, so close he could feel the sickly warmth of his body, close enough to smell his acrid cologne, and pulled Draco Malfoy into a bruising kiss. 

“Salut mon coeur,” Malfoy murmured into the kiss, and Duchene hummed back at him. The display was disgustingly sweet- and not at all right for the middle of a grimy backwater pub, let alone a drug bust. Harry was going to have to obliviate himself as soon as possible. “J'ai un client, mon amour,” Malfoy continued, glancing back at Harry with unfamiliarity and a hint of coy playfulness. From this close, Harry noticed the subtle glamor. Malfoy’s eyes were blue, not grey, and his brows and lashes were dark, rather than the near-silver that they were in school. His nose was wrong too, though Harry couldn’t point out how. The tattoo on his arm was no dark mark, but instead a lovely bouquet of daffodils wrapped in dark ribbon. _Clever._

“Tch, va te faire enculer,” Duchene said towards Harry, though his incredulous stare didn’t last long, as Malfoy pulled him into another snog, slow and sweet and passionate. Harry thought he might puke.

“S'il vous plaît,” Malfoy whispered, and Duchene chuckled.

“Ainsi soit-il,” Duchene waved his hand with an air of nonchalance. Malfoy smiled and tugged Duchene’s lapel softly, as though they had shared some private victory. It was a horrifying performance. 

“So?” Malfoy sneered at Harry, then shot a saccharine smile back at Duchene. 

“Right. Vodka Martini, shaken, not stirred,” Harry dropped his silencing charm, reciting easily, and Malfoy smiled. 

“Perfect.” 

Before Harry could even blink, Malfoy was relaying information to Ron through the link, and describing in great detail how they would all get out of the bar alive, and hopefully successful. 

_One of the bodyguards is with me, Vinny, the one in the deep green. He’s going to get Chang up to the storage room while I incapacitate Jason. Then Potter, you’ll have to help Archer find the files, they should be hidden somewhere on the second floor. I know you don’t want to lose anyone from this lot, but there are going to be at least eight men outside waiting for the transport. Nobody touch anything that glows yellow or green, these wankers have no remorse for the pain they’ll put you through. Weasley, try your best to call for backup, I wasn’t expecting Jason down this early. Don’t vanish anything without double checking, there are codes all over the place. Go slowly. Any sudden movements will startle them._ Draco focused his gaze on Harry as he placed the martini down. _Do me a favor, Savior, and give me some of that Gryffindor charm. And lay it on thick._

Harry was stunned, not only by the full rundown of plans that had flooded his senses, but also by Malfoy’s shamelessly flawless plan. It must have taken months to track everything out the way he had. Months of research and trickery for him to know the setup so well. Months where he was “dating” Jason Duchene, and Harry didn’t even _notice._ The man was brilliant. Still an arse, but brilliant. And now he was asking Harry to flirt with him. _Bastard._

“Thank you, darling,” Harry leaned forward into Malfoy’s space as he took the drink. He kept eye contact as long as possible. “You have lovely eyes. So blue,” he whispered, nearly out of his seat now. The eyes were safe to like, they weren’t Malfoy’s. Malfoy blushed, and it was almost pretty on him. Harry smiled and brushed a strand of hair away from Malfoy’s face, and that’s when Duchene snapped. 

“Antione!” He barked, and Malfoy flinched. “Come here, pet.” Malfoy nodded and was by his side in an instant. “À qui appartiens-tu?” Duchene murmured into Malfoy’s neck, and Harry shivered. 

“Toi, toujours toi,” Malfoy answered back, and his eyes met Harry’s. _GO._ Harry went. 

It only took five minutes to find the files he needed to lock Jason _Fucking_ Duchene up for a long, long time, and when he came back down to the ground floor, Duchene was thoroughly stunned, Ron was checking and double-checking all the potions Cho had gathered from the storage, and Draco Malfoy was staring at him with his own molten silver eyes. 

_November 26, 2005_

Draco Malfoy was an undercover agent for the French Aurors. Draco Malfoy had been tracking Jason Duchene for three months before Harry got on the case. Draco Malfoy was damn good at his job. Draco Malfoy was friends with Ron--Harry's Ron, and they were laughing together like old mates. Draco Malfoy had helped him catch Jason Duchene. Bloody hell. 

“Harry, are you okay?” Hermione whispered at him, her hand placed lovingly on his arm. 

“Oh, just lovely, thanks,” he responded sarcastically, but she didn’t flinch. They were seated at the kitchen table in the Granger-Weasley home in Sedgefield, a sweet muggle town in northern England. Ron and Draco were standing in the foyer, drinking fancy cocktails and sharing tales of their penpal-ship from the last four months. Four months where Ron was writing bloody love letters to Malfoy while Harry investigated a man they had practically already captured. The world was a cruel place. 

Luckily, Hermione hadn’t even touched whatever fancy concoction Malfoy had made her to drink, and that gave Harry the slightest twinge of hope. Perhaps he wasn’t entirely alone in his selfish loathing. But then, she beckoned her husband and, ugh, Malfoy into the kitchen and joined them in casual conversation. Harry was decidedly not okay. He wasn’t okay with the lies, and the promises, and the fact that Malfoy- _MALFOY_ \- was in his friend's home. He wasn’t okay with how Malfoy was wearing a french style auror robe and playing idly with his hair, how he was leaning back in his chair in such a way that made him look like he _belonged_ there, with _Harry’s_ friends. Harry wasn’t okay with the sandstorm of jealousy in his head, battering against his skull while Malfoy took a drag from a charmed cigarette that left no smoke and made the room smell like treacle. He wasn’t okay with the shiny gold wedding band that glimmered on Malfoy’s finger. And he certainly wasn’t okay with the fact that Draco Malfoy was not hiding away in some hole somewhere, but instead fighting crime in France, doing the exact same job as Harry, and in some instances, doing it _better._

It was insufferable, it was jarring, it was obnoxious, it was-

“Harry? Mate, Draco asked you if you’re staying here tonight.” Ron nudged Harry’s hand. The dark mahogany clock in the entryway dinged ten times, and Harry shrugged. 

“S’pose I should, considering the time. If that’s alright.” Harry downed the rest of his butterbeer, and Hermione’s eyebrows drew together. 

“It’s fine. Draco, there’s a sweet hotel down the street called ‘The Impeccable Pig.’ It’s truly lovely, trust us,” Hermione grinned and looked at Ron, who flamed red. Draco laughed easily with them, and Harry’s chest tightened. “They have a few spare wizarding rooms that are usually open. I’ll call now and check.” Hermione eased out of her chair and meandered down the hall, leaving Harry alone with his best friend and his worst nightmare. Well, second worst. 

“So, Potter. I hear you’re on track to make Head of Department soon?” Malfoy smiled, and though Ron thought it was all in good fun, Harry saw the glint in his dark eyes. Harry ‘hmmed’ in response. “Exciting. Can’t wait to work more with you two, seems as though you’re the best of the best.” Malfoy put his hand--his _hand_ \--on Ron’s shoulder, and Harry bit back a growl.

Harry wasn’t usually so quick to anger. Well, maybe he was. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that Draco Malfoy couldn’t help but wedge himself uncomfortably underneath Harry’s skin, without fail. He was too pretty, too pureblood, too perfect for justice or kindness. He was Harry’s personal vice. And he was now a friend, a colleague, all within the blink of an eye. It burned like acid on the open wounds of Harry’s pride. 

“What are you on about,” he groused, and Ron glanced warily at him. 

“Draco’s transferring… here. For a year. Robards requested it because of our teamwork on the Duchene case.” Ron rubbed the back of his neck and shot Harry a careful smile. Malfoy’s gaze was burning and unwavering. The lights in the small kitchen flickered gently as Harry felt angry magic lick up his body. “Brilliant? No?” Ron’s voice sounded small.

“Mm. Bloody Fucking Brilliant,” Harry ground out, and then he whisked himself out of the kitchen and to the guest room two doors down, his magic crackling in the hallway. 

“Is he always like this?” Malfoy spoke quietly, but Harry could still hear him over the rush of blood in his ears and the thin walls between them. He didn’t listen for Ron’s response. 

_November 27, 2005_

Harry woke up angry and starved. The smell of bacon floated down the hallway to him, and he allowed it to rouse him from his morning grogginess. The sounds of Hermione laughing and Ron singing dragged him further down the hallway, and he was monumentally pleased to not find a blond slytherin sitting in his chair, as he had been last night. 

“Harry! Breakfast! And news!” Ron called over his shoulder, and though Harry was still pissed, he let Ron’s smile placate him, just a bit. He slid into his chair (which was luckily unmarred by past occupants) and poured himself some tea from the charmed pot in the center of the table. Hermione handed him a copy of the Quibbler, and Harry gratefully accepted it. He thumbed through the pages, searching for the missed connections and, though he would never admit it, the obituaries. But for some reason, the third page was stuck. Stuck hard, as if someone used an industrial-strength sticking charm. 

“Right. What gives?” Harry asked, and Hermione’s eyes were glittering. She only shrugged. Harry struggled for two seconds more before he saw it. A piece of paper was tacked onto the bottom of the second page, camouflaged into the curling scripts and photos. 

_ANNOUNCEMENT_ , it read, _Hermione Granger-Weasley and Ronald Weasley, Best Friends of Harry Potter, The Bitch Who Lived, are Expecting an Addition to Their Family!_

Beneath the headline was a small picture of Ron, Harry and Hermione, hugging after Harry and Ron completed their Auror training. Harry dropped his teacup. 

“You’re joking.” Both his friends were watching him now, Hermione with tears spilling down her face. The bacon was burning. “This isn’t funny.”

“You’re right, it’s not funny. Terrible joke, Hermione, really, such poor taste.” Ron deadpanned, and Harry’s chest felt tight, full. 

“When?” He said, and he was up and hugging his friends before the reply came. 

“May,” Hermione laughed into the bear-hug.

“Christ,” Harry responded. “ _Christ. I’m so-_ ” the words didn’t come. “I’m so…” 

“Yeah mate, sounds about right,” Ron responded, and Harry felt his heart break a little. A family. A real family. It seemed so precious and lovely, and so painfully unattainable. Harry tried to ignore the tiny voice in the back of his head, the voice that forced him to realize that his friends weren’t his, but a knot of anticipation was nonetheless forming in his stomach. They had a family. Harry was part of it, sure, but he was also firmly outside of the world-stopping love Hermione and Ron had for each other- a passerby who was looking through shop windows as he walked. He would never marry Ginny, they would never have family getaways together, they wouldn’t raise their kids together. He was happy, of course, blissfully, overwhelmingly happy, but underneath it all he felt the boundaries come up. The walls that signified growing up, moving on. The bittersweet truth of being a side character in someone else’s loving romance story- a witness to unimaginable beauty. 

Harry took a deep breath in. For now, they were his. For now, he held them tighter. 

_December 23, 2005_

“What do you mean, Malfoy’s going to be there.” Harry was sitting in his office at Grimmauld, his auror robes half undone, and Ron was glancing queasily between Harry and the floo, his mouth in a tight frown.

“I just… well. He’s…”

“He’s _Malfoy_.” Harry was trying to be calm, he was, but… 

“No- well, yes he is. But-”

“But _nothing_! That’s your _home_ Ron! Did you forget what he did to you? To _Hermione_?” Harry stood up, and a book flew off the shelf behind his desk. “Circe Ron, he could be up to-”

“Harry if you say Draco is up to something I _swear_ I will snap every quill you own in two.” Ron stood to match him, and he leered over Harry. 

“But-”

“But nothing, Harry,” Ron threw back, and Harry gulped. “He’s coming to Christmas because he’s my friend, and he asked me for a favor. You know as well as I do that he’s got nobody here to spend it with, his wife is still in France. He’s coming, and you’re coming, and you’re going to be civil- for me.”

“I-” Harry began, but Ron glared at him. “Fine.” He slumped back into his chair. A few seconds passed before Harry glanced up again, and Ron looked all too pleased with himself. The fire cracked, and it reminded Harry of jeering laughter. Fuck, he wouldn’t be surprised if this murderous house was laughing at him, it seemed to have a shine for dark humor. 

“Thank you.” Ron smiled so sweetly at him that Harry thought he might retch. 

“You trust him?” Harry fiddled with his buttons again, shrugging off his cloak and relaxing into his home. 

“I do.”

“Why?” Harry tried not to notice how Ron flinched. 

“Because he’s… well, he’s bloody smart. And he apologized quite sincerely to me. And he helped me with the case that had been bugging us for months. And he asked for my help, too, which Hermione agrees shows a great deal of awareness and growth, and… Merlin Harry, you forgive everyone else- why not him? You saved the man from hell and you can’t even look him in the eyes.” Ron swirled around his tea, and Harry sighed. 

He really couldn’t pinpoint the reason he hated the Malfoys so much. Perhaps it was how unassumingly bland they were. They were one of the most powerful families in the world, and yet they still clung to shadows and switched allegiances in the drop of a hat. They were rats parading about in top hats and a general air of superiority that grated Harry’s nerves. And sure, Malfoy didn’t always wear robes like his father, and he laughed sometimes, and once Harry thought he saw Malfoy wearing unmatched socks- but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still a prick. 

“Mmm,” he hummed and shrugged, as if it were a perfectly good answer. Ron didn’t look convinced. “I just don’t think he deserves it.”

“So what does he have to do then? Save the world for you, repay his life debt?” There was color high on Ron’s cheeks, and that annoyed Harry even more. His best friend cared more about a Hogwarts bully coming to Christmas than he did Harry’s feelings. Figures. 

“Yeah. maybe.”

_January 6, 2006_

Christmas wasn’t a complete disaster. Hermione and Ron shared their news, and there were many cheers and good tidings shared. Malfoy charmed the whole house in a matter of hours. Molly and Aurthur were quiet at first, but Malfoy’s general compliments on the house, the cooking and the decorations warmed Molly and placated Aurthur, at least enough for them to ease at Malfoy’s jarring presence. Bill and Charlie were dismissive, but not unkind. Only George was actively cold towards him, but that was pretty adjacent to how he usually acted in the Burrow, as if he were missing something important and couldn’t find it. Teddy ran around with Victorie, his hair a brilliant rainbow of color, high on joy and oblivious to the small threads of tension that were pulling at the adults. 

Even Andy seemed resigned to the Shytherin’s company. Harry caught them in the kitchen talking quietly to one another, Malfoy’s head bowed, Andy’s hand resting on his cheek. He was holding her other hand in both of his, rubbing it over, shaking his head. Harry watched a tear roll down her cheek, and Malfoy wiped it away. He was so gentle, the back of his hand brushing her skin with reverence. Harry walked away before they spotted him. 

In all, the day had made him feel even more lonely than he had been the month before. He still felt the achiness in his chest when he saw his family happy and together, their wounds from the war healing with each passing year. But now it would focus itself and become a burn that rested behind his heart every time he saw them make connections beyond him. He knew it was selfish, and horrible of him, and cruel, but he couldn’t help it. 

And now Draco Malfoy was in his fucking office, prancing about and bringing Ron tea every once in a while, as if he was wanted there. Harry wanted to throttle him. Or throttle himself. He wasn’t quite sure which one. 

_Can you believe,_ Ron would say, as they watched Malfoy walk away, _what a nice bloke Draco can be? And they say the French are rude… Bollocks!_

Harry could not, in fact, believe it. 

He could not believe it when Malfoy came in early every day, even before Harry got there at six. He could not believe when Malfoy pressed his slim pale hands into Ron’s desk to look at documents or gameplans. He couldn’t believe it when Malfoy came out to the pub with the team and bought the next round, complaining loudly about the shitty beer and garish music. He couldn’t believe it when Malfoy didn’t spare him a second glance. He couldn’t believe nobody else had stunned the man while on duty and left him to the sharks. He couldn’t believe it when Malfoy knocked on the door of his office right as Harry was packing up to leave for the weekend, ruining any budding hope of relaxation. 

“Malfoy.”

“Auror Potter! You’re still here, wonderful. I was looking into the list of potions ingredients that were found at Vimbards last week, and it seems as though siren hair was one of the boxes that had gone missing in the attack on Cherry street, you know, the one with the fox animagus as the witness, yes? Anyways, I think I found another link between the two incidents and I would be interested to see what you have to add, you see because-” Malfoy had moved into the office now, his eyes glinting in the dim light. Harry suppressed a shiver. 

“I’ll read your report on Monday, Malfoy.” Harry fiddled with the buckles on his briefcase, his hands itching to do something other than reach for his wand. 

“Ah, of course. Quite right.” Malfoy’s face had gone quite pale, and Harry was comforted by the fact that Malfoy looked as though he’d been chastised. He turned to walk out into the hall, but something took over in Harry and he grabbed Malfoy’s arm before he could leave. 

“What are you playing at, Malfoy,” Harry spat, shoving him up against the wall. There was a wand holster on Malfoy’s arm, covering the… Harry gulped and shoved the other man again. “Why are you really here.”

“Wouldn’t you love to know,” Malfoy seethed back, wrestling out of Harry’s grip. He stopped after a few useless tugs and sighed. When his steely eyes met Harry’s again, the fiery anger had leaked out of them, and a pious mask replaced it. “I’m here for work, Potter. I love my job. I’m good at my job. Let me go.” 

Harry didn’t. Instead, he slammed Malfoy against the wall, smiling when he heard the crack of skull against the wood. Malfoy’s mask didn’t slip in the slightest. “Make one wrong move, say one wrong word, and you’ll never see another Auror department again, no matter how far you run from your mistakes. If you hurt my friends I’ll find you and I’ll fucking castrate you myself.” 

Malfoy simply nodded once, twisted out of Harry’s grip and was out the door in the span of a blink. Harry barely heard Malfoy mutter from down the hall, his shoes squeaking on the polished tiles, _“Qui vivra verra.”_

_February 26, 2006_

It seemed that Harry was miraculously alone in his appraisal of Malfoy’s character. Everywhere he turned, people were singing praises for the stylish new “bad-boy” Auror, back from his fall into darkness. _Why does he always wear that wand holster?_ He heard in Diagon after the Prophet released a Malfoy exposé. _What was he doing in France for so long?_ Two wizards whispered in the dining hall of the Ministry. _He’s so handsome, I can’t believe I never noticed in school._ A witch laughed with her friends over lunch, two tables away from Harry. _Poor man, did you hear? All alone with such a young child._ An elderly man had lamented after Malfoy and Harry took his eye-witness account of a robbery. 

Hermione told him he was being silly, and that _Draco is flawed, just like every other human being. He hasn’t been dealt a fair hand, this year. Try to be kind._ Harry had rolled his eyes at her, saying _you’re not flawed Mione,_ to which she blushed. 

It wouldn’t have been that bad, but the man was impossible to pin down. At times he knew things nobody else knew, like where to hit wards cast by dark wizards so that they came down in only three hits, or how to get past mind-numbing fog bombs without losing track of time. Other times he was so calculating and cold that it felt like he was less a person and more a finely turned weapon, which was unsettling and left Harry with the taste of copper in his mouth. But then Malfoy would smile, or make a joke, and christ- the man could be painfully funny- and Harry would bite his lips and remind himself over and over that Malfoy was a Bad Person and Couldn’t Be Trusted. It was desperate work. 

When he went to tea at Andy’s Harry was barely surprised to see Malfoy at her kitchen table, Teddy on his lap and what looked like pumpkin juice in his hand. 

“Harry dear, come in, come in!” Andy puttered about, putting the kettle on and sliding a tray of biscuits across the table. Malfoy didn’t look at him. 

“Uncle Ree! Uncle Ree, look, Draco isa pirate!” The seven year old beamed, his hair a stark white replica of Malfoy’s blond head. 

“Is that so?” Harry asked, taking a biscuit and nibbling the corner of it. It was anise, sweet and licorice-y on his tongue. 

“Yes, yes! He just won the Navy and saved the, um, the Princess! See that?” Teddy pointed to a pot of jam and a pepper shaker. Malfoy remained impassive as always, his eyes never leaving a spot on the table. Harry nodded, his eyebrows drawn together as if contemplating a serious naval battle. “Can I have a sweet?” Teddy eyed the plate in front of them.

Harry held out a biscuit, then pulled it back right before Teddy took it. “It’s like licorice, so you might not like it.” Teddy nodded sagely and sniffed it cautiously before he took a tiny bite with his one front tooth. 

He didn’t like it. “Draco, you can eat my biscuit.” Teddy placed the biscuit in Malfoy’s hand, and Malfoy laughed, all white teeth and un-Malfoy-ish smile lines. 

“Ah, thank you. Not a fan, Edward?” Draco took a bite of the nibbled biscuit and Teddy scrunched up his nose comically. 

“Jus’ not hungry,” he responded, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out where he had adopted his imperious attitude from. Silence reigned for a few long seconds, with Harry carefully watching where Malfoy’s hand rested on Teddy’s back, strong and sturdy and pale. Malfoy cleared his throat. 

“Right, then. I’ll see you soon Edward, Andromeda. Thank you, again.” He nodded, picked Teddy up and placed him on his feet, then rose to leave a kiss on Andy’s cheek. “Potter,” he said, and he walked out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. Teddy’s hair went a little grey. 

“A bientôt mon fils! Ne t'inquiète pas pour Scorpius,” Andromeda called as the floo roared. 

“Oui, à bientôt.” Malfoy’s voice called back, and then he was gone.

“Sac-re-bloo,” Harry mimicked and Andromeda glared at him. “What?”

“You could _try_ to not scare him away like that. Every time you come into the room he skitters away like a mouse.” Andy sat across from him and poured them their tea, piping hot and steeped to perfection. Teddy climbed up onto Harry’s lap and grabbed his hand, brushing his small fingers over the scars he found, pale little treasures traced onto Harry’s rich skin. 

“I was perfectly civil!” Harry argued, and Andromeda just shrugged. “What’s with you knowing french?” He countered, feigning disinterest despite his burning curiosity. 

“The Rosier family is from France, as are the Malfoys, Harry. The Black Family Tapestry still hangs in your home, does it not?” Andy raised her eyebrows, and it was hard not to see the resemblance between her and her nephew. 

“It does.” Harry rubbed his hands over his face, jostling his glasses. “He’s just… such a-”

“Language, Mr. Potter.” Andy interrupted, and Teddy’s eyes went wide. 

“Cousin, my cousin Draco is, he’s good, right? A good guy?” His lower lip wobbled in fear, and Harry sighed. 

“Of course he is Ted. He’s a good guy.” Harry brushed his hand through Teddy’s blond hair, and he tried not to wonder if Malfoy’s hair felt like this. Soft and thick. 

“I knew it. I know he is.” Teddy smiled and nodded to himself. 

Harry hoped he was right. 

_March 14, 2006_

Hermione was trying not to seem pregnant, but even without her belly, her eyes held a tired light that acted as a warning to everyone around her. Her pregnancy was not easy, with long nights and harsh arguments at work and, according to Ron, crippling pain and migraines that she worked through to plan for her leave. She was on track to be minister in the next ten years, but people were doubting her at every turn, especially with motherhood on her horizon. Harry couldn’t imagine the amount of willpower it was taking her not to shred everyone around her to pieces. 

“And _then_ he said that I should sit down, because being ‘too active’ isn’t good for the baby! The _audacity_ of it all, I swear!” Hermione was sitting in the loveseat across from him, her feet perched on a footstool and a cooling charm hovering around her. 

“Well that’s bollocks, has he even met you?” Malfoy was standing behind the couch, swirling a dark liquor and scowling at the papers in his hand. “You killed a mass murderer at seventeen, and he thinks you can’t handle a board meeting. Typical.” He had come over to retrieve some files on the Doxy wars for a recent case, but somewhere along the way Hermione and Ron had stumbled in, and then dinner was served, and so Malfoy was stuck in Grimmauld for the evening, fraying Harry’s nerves and chatting up his friends. 

“That’s exactly what I said!” Ron chimed in, and Hermione smiled at him. 

“Is Alberts the bloke who tried to turn down the Wolfsbane Initiative?” Harry added, though he was sure he knew the answer. 

“The very same.” Hermione looked exhausted. The fire flickered lazily, and Harry stretched out his legs, tired from the stressful day, and conversation, and life. Malfoy skirted around the couch and sat down next to him, his hair haloed by the flames. He was almost pretty like this, his hair up, his smile dampened by alcohol and friends. Harry gulped and tore his eyes away. Too bad Malfoy was a right git. It should be a crime to be so gorgeous, tosser that he is. 

“Anything we can do?” Malfoy asked, and Hermione laughed. “What? Three Aurors against one sexist politician? We can’t lose.” Hermione giggled again, but she shook her head. Harry bristled. 

“That would be illegal, Malfoy. You’d be fired on the spot,” Harry growled, and the room went dead silent. 

“Mate, Draco was only joking,” Ron tested, and Harry’s anger mounted at how Ron was defending Malfoy instead of his best friend. 

“No, no that’s fine,” Mafloy cocked his head to look Harry in the eye. He was insufferably guarded now, when only a moment ago he had been smiling and drinking as if he belonged with them. Harry was pleased that Malfoy had been shaken from that delusion. “We’ll just have to think of something else.”

Hermione smiled at him. “Really, it just helps that you listen. I work all day with people who talk. I just need someone to listen.” Hermione sighed again, and Ron brushed a hair behind her ear.

Harry couldn’t ease the tightness in his chest for hours after they had left. 

_April 4, 2006_

Harry tried his best to avoid Malfoy on every mission. He would tell Robards to send him in alone if they were ever partnered, he would make excuses not to join in on stakeouts, he would even claim that he needed the time to fill out paperwork, which made Robards roll his eyes and Ron puff a laugh of disbelief. 

It’s not as if he didn’t like being in the field. He did. But being with Malfoy felt like a trap, like he was being set up for disaster, like he would trip and fall headfirst into a potion that would melt his skin off or do something else as equally terrible. He didn’t trust the man. He didn’t trust himself with believing in Malfoy when he needed to, when their lives depended on it. 

When Malfoy would prance into the office after a bust, Ron hot on his heels and grinning like a mischievous pixie, Harry would have to take a few deep breaths and remind himself that punching his coworkers would probably not go down well, regardless of his legacy. When Malfoy trudged past him, covered in dirt and potions and sweat, Harry would have to hold his tongue against the cutting remarks that threatened to burst from him, vicious and cruel. 

“Nice mud,” Harry would mutter while he scanned a report. 

“Thank you, Auror Potter,” Malfoy would respond, all graciousness and unfaltering modesty. 

“Lovely shrinking potion you have there,” Harry would remark over his burnt coffee, barely looking up. 

“Ah, ‘twas on sale,” Malfoy would jest back, ignoring Harry’s poisonous tone. 

“Those scorch marks really bring out how thin you are, Malfoy,” Harry would sneer as he strode past.

“Oh, kind of you to notice - my new diet is strictly made up of evil planning and flobberworms,” Malfoy would quip, barely a beat later. 

It became a sort of game for Harry. The limits he could push Malfoy seemed endless, and he let loose a verbal torrent whenever the coast was clear enough. It was simultaneously frustrating and relaxing, getting to fume but wanting a reaction, needing anything other than the cool indifference Malfoy gave him.

_May 21, 2006_

Rose Weasley was the sweetest child Harry had ever held. She was insanely small, startlingly inconsequential and yet so full of love and light, only two days old and already spreading endless joy. She had barely been set down since she was born, doted on by her parents and their friends. Molly had cried with Harry in the hallway two days before, weeping over each other and staining the sleeves of their jumpers with tears. 

Since then the wetness of his eyes hadn’t ceased. The tears found Harry when he buttered his toast in the morning, while he showered, while he sipped his tea and looked out at his overgrown garden, while he regarded the dandelions that pushed up between the stones. He choked up before he left his home, his eyes catching on the pictures of his friends that littered every surface. He laughed wetly into the embraces of Ron and Ginny, brushing at his face before they could see. He pressed his palms to his eyes whenever he found a moment alone, his heart dragged into his throat by the well of love that had opened up at his feet. 

When Draco Malfoy stopped by, Harry couldn’t bring himself to get angry, too overwhelmed and drained to muster up any foul feelings or bitter words. He watched as Draco hugged Ron, a hand clasped to his cheek, words whispered between them. Draco had brought a gift, wrapped in silver wrapping paper and shining brightly in his hand. 

Harry hovered in the doorway as Draco cooed over Rose, as Hermione asked how it was that her heart had never loved so fully before.

“I know, I know,” Draco had said, his long finger held in Rose’s perfect hand. “Believe me, I’ll never forget it.”

Harry cried then too, watching as Draco spoke quietly to Rose in french, as Hermione dosed on the couch, as the evening light encased them in a soft orange glow. Draco stayed until it got dark, until Ron had come in, rubbing his eyes and yawning, until Harry’s feet went numb and he had to sit on the floor, letting his tears drip onto the hardwood and streak down his glasses.

He followed Draco to the floo as he left, catching the blond’s arm before he could make his escape. 

“How’s Scorpius?” Harry asked, and Draco regarded him for a solid moment before he answered. The lights in the house were mostly out, and the shadows were long across their faces. 

“He’s all right. He’s with Andromeda.” Draco looked confused. Scared. Their voices were quiet in the darkness, whispered like the wind through the trees, as if they were trying to leave the air untouched by the sound of them. 

“If you- If I can- If you need, I can, um-” Harry stumbled over his own tongue, and suddenly Draco felt too close, too loud, too alive beneath Harry’s hand on his arm. 

“No. Thank you, but no. We’re okay.” Draco moved away, and the floo flared to life. 

“Draco,” Harry hissed before the man could leave. 

“Harry,” he countered, one foot in the cool green flames. Harry didn’t say anything for a few long seconds, and then he reached out a hand. Draco looked at it, frowned, swallowed, then slowly took it, solid and warm. Harry squeezed, shook it once. 

_I’m sorry, I understand_ , the embrace said. _I didn’t know,_ it said, _I forgive you._

_June 16, 2006._

It was easier to get a reaction out of Malfoy when Harry was focused on making him smile. Draco still came to work too early, but for the first time Harry noticed the breaks he took to go home, the amount he checked the clock before five, the owls he received every hour. 

“Is he blond too?” Harry asked after one such note was delivered, Andy’s barn owl nipping his fingers and cooing for treats.

“Starkly so, looks like a ghost when he’s not screaming like one,” Draco had smiled, happy to divulge, a fondness in his eyes that Harry tried not to be jealous of. 

“Where is his-” Harry started, but Draco had already clammed up, his stance rigid, his face pale. “Right, sorry, nevermind.”

It went like this, often. Harry tried to peel back the layers of Draco that his friends had already seen, already cherished, and he would end up with a wall thrust up at him, Malfoy’s eyes shuttered against him and his closed mouth set in a grim line.

Though it was slow, he still made progress. He bought Malfoy a drink in the pub after work, and they bickered over the superiority of dark versus light spirits. 

“A good amber whiskey,” Harry argued, “is better than any warming charm. Spiked Butterbeer with Ogdens original? Can’t beat it.” 

“Maybe if you’re a teenager nicking booze from your father’s liquor cabinet,” Draco sneered, but he held a secret smile behind the expression. “An expensive gin, paired with effervescent spring water. _That_ is the definition of bliss.”

They laughed together, leaving the pub early in the night, Draco claiming that he was a horrid father, Harry shoving him, denying it and smiling. Draco went home to his family. Harry went home to his empty rooms, his creaky floorboards. 

_July 5, 2006_

The curse was all Harry’s fault. He was the one who was supposed to watch the team’s back as they picked their way through the wards in the ancient building. Harry had underestimated the kickback of rushing in. He had misjudged the angle, he had acted carelessly. He had plucked the wrong cord of the protection spells on the third floor, and he’d barely had time to act before Draco had shouted at them to _Get Down,_ before the gust of magic whipped through the three of them, tearing them off their feet and slamming them into the wall of the stairwell.

They should have been dead. They would have been, if Draco hadn’t been so quick, if he hadn’t shielded them when he did, seconds before it was too late. His lightning-fast reflexes had left Harry and Ron with little more than a few broken bones, well enough to pull Draco from the rubble, well enough to yell his name, well enough to apparate him directly to St. Mungo’s. 

The curse had collapsed Draco’s lungs, had sucked all the oxygen from his blood like a vacuum, and had knocked him into a three day coma. Harry barely left the hospital for those three days, only abandoning his post to check in at Andy’s, to talk to a mind-healer, to sleep on Ron’s office couch for a few hours at a time, or to snack on salty dry crackers with Hermione. He tried not to cry. He had been told it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t stand the idea of Scorpius being like him. Alone. 

But he wouldn’t be. Draco was awake now, and Ron was holding his hand, and Harry was pacing at the end of the stuffy room, apologizing, saying that he never-

“-should have put you both at risk like that. I was out of my mind for acting before thinking it through, I was brash, and inconsiderate, and I-” 

“Yes, Harry,” Draco interrupted, his voice gravelly and tired. “We know. You’re a hero. Ta ever so much for proving that you’re suffering from an incapacitating bout of guilt.” 

Ron snickered, his cheeks streaked with wetness. Harry sat, chastised and sulky. 

“Gave him a bit of a scare, I think,” Ron whispered, just loud enough for Harry to overhear. 

“I’ve been worse. He’s seen me worse,” Draco whispered back, and Harry felt his eyes prickle again, uncomfortable and hot. 

“Sorry,” he rasped.

“For?”

“ _Christ_ , Malfoy. For all of it. For school. For the… you know. _Merlin,_ all of it.” Harry looked up, blinking into the fluorescents. 

“A bit belated, that. But I accept.” Draco sounded like he was smiling. Harry couldn’t look. Ron laughed again, bright and hopeful. 

_Thank god,_ Harry thought. _Thank god._

_August 19, 2006_

Draco’s townhouse was nothing like Harry expected. The warm summer day filled the rooms with light, and all the windows were open, bringing in a dancing breeze and the smell of sage from the garden. The walls were covered in intricate wallpaper, faded in places and fresh in others. All of the furniture was dark and rich, and it contrasted hilariously with the baby-proofing charms that were littered throughout the house, glowing in soft pastel colors and sparkling against the afternoon sun. They had tea in Draco’s kitchen, mismatched cups on chipped saucers, the white tile glowing brightly, a vase of yellow roses sitting softly on the counter by the sink. 

Scorpius was asleep in Draco’s arms, and their conversation had lulled in response to the infant, both of them reluctant to wake him with something so callous as verbal communication. A cat meowed from the hallway, and Draco 'tsked, a small smile playing on his lips. He looked soft like this, mostly recovered, glowing, holding his son close. 

“Who’s that?” Harry whispered.

“Tiberius, he’s a Bengal. And a menace,” Draco whispered back. “You can go find him, if you like.” 

Harry nodded and slid out of his chair as quietly as possible, tiptoeing into the hallway. Blue eyes peered at him from around the corner, and he followed them down the hall, sparing a moment every few steps to look at the photos that hung on the walls. 

There was Narcissa Malfoy, sitting in a garden, looking young and cheerful, surrounded by daffodils. Next was a picture of Malfoy Manor in wintertime, a flurry of snow obscuring the shape of it. There were pictures of Draco at different ages; ten, riding a broom, thirteen, done up in party attire and looking unhappy, fifteen, one arm around Blaise Zabini, the other around the waist of a girl with dark hair and a shy blush high on her cheeks. There was a photo from a wedding, the same dark-haired girl smiling as Draco lifted a glass to her, white and silver swirling around them. The last picture was eerily familiar, Draco and the girl standing by a fountain, wrapped up in green scarves and heavy coats, laughing as the wind whipped around them. 

Tiberius meowed again, and Harry looked down to find the cat rubbing against his leg, silvery-white and long. He knelt down and rubbed the cat behind its ears, cheered by its soft purring. After a while the cat jumped up into his lap, and Harry laughed. 

“I’ve made a friend,” Harry said quietly as he walked back into the kitchen, cradling Tiberius in his arms.

“Of course you have,” Draco rolled his eyes, and Harry felt his breath catch in his throat. Draco’s head was tilted slightly, his eyes bright and filled with the sunshine from outside. His hair caught a rainbow that had bounced off the decorative glass of the windows, washing him in color and softening his harsh angles, his high cheekbones, his sharp nose. He was wearing a light sweater, deep green and cashmere. Scorpius was cradled in his arms, small and precious, safe in his father’s embrace. Tiberius jumped out of Harry’s hold as he stared, mouth slightly agape and tears threatening him as they so often did these days. 

“You’re-” Harry started, and then he choked it back down. “I’ve got to, uhm, I should get going.” 

“Oh, of course. I’ll see you Monday. Thank you for the tea.” Draco smiled again, warmer than sunshine, and Harry felt his face flush. Before he could think twice about it, Harry stepped around the corner of the counter and bent to kiss the soft downy hair on Scorpius’ head. When he came up, Draco’s eyes were only inches away, his breath ghosting over Harry’s face. Harry blinked, glanced down at Draco’s parted lips, wet from the tea and rosy with the summer heat. He stepped away carefully, and mumbled a quick, _Sure, anytime,_ and then he was out the door, walking away from Draco’s home with quick jittery steps.

_September 23, 2006_

Harry didn’t notice the way his feelings had crept up on him until it was much too late. It was, of course, Hermione, who called him out on it, cornering him in the library of Grimmauld after claiming she needed help finding a book about the significance of star alignment when group casting. 

“Draco’s home is lovely, isn’t it?” She had said, her face buried in the stacks. 

“Mhm,” Harry replied thoughtlessly, finger dragging along the spines of the books, “Asteroid, Astro, Astro, Astrology, Astrology, Astrology, ha! Astronomy.” He pulled out the text and handed it to Hermione, oblivious to her calculating gaze. 

“He must be lonely, without Astoria,” she continued, and Harry started. 

“I suppose. I don’t, he hasn’t… We don’t talk about it.” 

“Do you want to know?” Hermione was a mad genius, but she was a shoddy actress. She sounded much too disinterested to be genuine. 

“Is this a trap?” Harry laughed, but the sound of it fell flat on his ears. Hermione looked at him then, her eyes sharp and prying.

“Do you like him?”

“Hah, ‘Mione, it's _Malfoy._ ”

“And do you like him?” 

“I, well I… Don’t know,” Harry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “He’s… Different than I thought. He’s… I may have misjudged him.” 

“Really?” Hermione feigned shock. A hole was torn in the thick curtains that were draped over the window, and dust floated through the beam of light over Hermione’s shoulder, illuminating her fly-away curls with a backdrop of gold.

“Okay, fine! You were right, I was wrong. Go ahead, say it, say that you told me so.” 

“Oh Harry, I would never!” She looked concerned, and Harry glared at her. She caved, dropping her act. “Well, alright, if you insist. I told you so.” 

“Thank you. And yes, you did.” Harry sighed, dropping into the matching chair of the gigantic cabinet-desk that was braced against the wall. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt for a few long moments, listening to the sound of Hermione rolling the ladder around the stacks. 

He had spent quite a few evenings at Draco’s in the past month. He’d gone over on the weekends with Teddy, gone out to the botanical gardens, the aquarium, the park. He’d held Scorpius for long hours while Draco cooked, while Teddy chased Tiberius around the island of the kitchen. He’d been over after work, with Ron, drinks in hand and stories tumbling out of their mouths, slurred by alcohol and sharpened with adrenaline. He’d been over alone, he’d sat in the garden and watched the birds play in the deep red branches of the cherry plum tree, he’d laughed quietly as Draco told him about France, about how he found Tiberius, about his childhood dream of becoming an astronaut and starting the first magic school on the moon. 

They talked about being queer, vaguely. Harry mentioned Ginny with all the grace he could, and Draco talked about Astoria as if she were an angel, his best friend and his closest confidant. They talked about work, about how Draco had found something in himself that could see a problem and find a solution.Draco told him that his wand holster had become a second skin, and he showed the inscription on the inside, _Qui n’avance pas, recule._ Harry shared that he felt lost when he didn’t have a cause, when he didn’t feel like he was doing enough to deserve the things he got. They never spoke about the war.

And every time he left, the urge to stay got stronger. The urge to never leave the warm home with the leaky faucet in the downstairs bath, the urge to keep sitting in the wicker porch chairs and let Draco talk him to sleep, the urge to close the distance between them before he left, to break down and beg Draco to let him stay. Anything to keep him from his own house, crowded with ghosts of a war and blood magic that wasn’t his, a family that would never be his. 

He couldn’t even try to piece together his feelings, raw and confusing as they were, so instead he sat in the dusty library of Grimmauld, toeing a dent in the old hardwood floor beneath him. 

When he called Draco’s that night, there was no reply.

_October 31, 2006_

Work made it easier to forget the date, and Harry was grateful for the distraction of it. Ron pretended that he was ignoring it, the same as every year, hiding his cautious looks behind questions about their latest cases or remarks about the toffee biscuits Luna had brought to dinner last week. _They were just so good!_ He’d say, a steady hand on Harry’s shoulder. _Don’t you agree? So good._ Harry did agree, but he kept his head down all morning, burying himself in paperwork and mismatched clues. 

He managed to do this every year, to lock himself away and hide from the truth of it, the bitter taste of loneliness. He’d send a bottle of sherry to Petunia, his only acknowledgement of the family they had shared and lost. Otherwise he would sit at home and stew. For a few years he would let Hermione drag him out somewhere; to Bath, to downtown, to the park, to her home where she would dress up in a witch costume and charm paper stars to float in the air. But it turned sad, after a while, as he would sit and watch his friends laugh together. It was not that they were unfamiliar with loss, or pain, but it was different to grow up out of place, to never have a home he was safe in. 

It was relieving when Draco bustled down the hallway, looking gaunt and tired, for he couldn’t possibly know about the significance of the day to Harry. 

“Harry,” he called, smiling, framed by the doorway. “Ronald.”

“Draco!” Ron stood, and Draco put a hand up to stop him. 

“I’m just here to ask if Harry will be joining us tonight. Luna wanted to know.” Draco brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen from where it was tied back, messy and swinging. 

“What’s tonight?” Harry glanced up from the stack of papers that crowded his desk. Now that he was looking closer, he could see the lines of tension in Draco as he leaned a hand on the door jamb, idly picking at the molding. 

“Ah, a party for Hallow’s Eve. ‘Was going to mention, but…” Ron glanced back and forth between Harry and Draco. 

“Oh. I’ll think about it. Thanks Malfoy.” Harry dove back into his papers again, reciting the ingredients to pepper-up in his head and counting his teeth with his tongue to distract himself. He barely heard Ron over the racket in his brain, quietly asking, _Are you all right, Draco? I’m so sorry…_ And Draco’s muttered response that he was _all right, oh, sure, I’ll manage._

Harry went to the party, pulling on an old shirt and muddying the knees of his pants to go as himself, then thinking better of it and changing, dragging in his nicest robes. After staring in the mirror for a few long minutes, he decided to use some sight potions and leave his glasses on the counter, charming his hair bright pink and squinting through the headache that was already forming. He would go as Teddy. 

When he stumbled through the floo, the party was already in full swing. Andy sat on one of the tall chairs of the drawing room, Scorpius in her arms. The baby swaddled in green fabric, a pea. Teddy knocked into Harry’s knees immediately, his emerald hair spiked up and reptilian scales littered across his cheeks. 

“Ree! I’m a dragon!” He squealed, flushed and warm in Harry’s arms. 

“I see that! Who am I?” Harry replied, pulling back to see recognition sparkle in Teddy’s eyes. 

“Me? Are you me? I like your hair!” Teddy jumped up and down, his own hair flashing pink, then back to green. Teddy dragged him through every room, pointing out the costumes and describing what they were supposed to be. “Aunty Luna is a star, see! And Hermie is a queen, did you see her crown? And Uncle Ron is a pod, and Rosie is a pea with Scorbus. Draco is a knight, and Grams said she was an angel, but she’s not wearing a costume.”

The rooms were a blur as Teddy paraded them around, telling everyone that they should, _Call Uncle Ree Teddy tonight!_ It was bright, and there was laughter and fairy lights lining the windows. The garden was especially brilliant, filled with pumpkins of different sizes and candles floating in the cool autumnal air. It smelled like spice cake and turkey, hinting at the holidays, reminding him of feasts at Hogwarts, cinnamon and apples and sawdust. At some point he had been wrapped up in conversation, drawn inside by the laughter, engaged in a lighthearted argument over quidditch teams and colors. He’d held Scorpius, then Rose, then mistaken one for the other, and then they were whisked away and drinks were pushed into his hands, fizzy and sweet. He’d chatted until people started to leave, and then he had found his way back to the garden, back to the cool rustle of leaves and the cloudless night. 

That’s where Draco found him, sitting in one of the wicker chairs, a butterbeer in hand, his eyes fixed to the stars. From inside an old record was spinning dizzily on a player, Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, their voices catching on the breeze. 

“People are leaving,” Draco said, backlit by the orange glow of the party. He was wearing shiny silver chainmail, a sword on his hip. His hair was slicked back and tied at the nape of his neck, and he looked all at once exactly like his father and yet entirely different. The charms on Harry’s own hair had faded, leaving it more black than pink, and his vision was beginning to blur around the edges, as if he were looking through a fogged glass. 

“I’ll help clean up,” Harry said, but he didn’t move, and Draco receded back into the house to bid his guests farewell. 

Hermione and Ron found him before they left, kissing him on the cheek, glancing around at the flowers and decorations. _Like Hogwarts,_ Ron remarked, tapping his finger against a floating candle, smiling. _Yeah,_ Harry had said, breathing in the magic and letting it lure him into fanciful nostalgia, back to a time where he felt found, seen. 

It was Harry’s turn to find Draco, the next time. He was sitting in the kitchen, changed into his house robes, palms pressed to his eyes, plates and food covering the island and the countertops. His chest shuddered with deep, uneven breaths, and Harry was all-too familiar with the pose. 

“Are you all right?” Harry asked, pulling up a stool and wrapping his fingers around Draco’s wrist. Draco let his hands fall, and his eyes were wet. 

“I thought you’d gone,” Draco responded, his voice scratchy, side-stepping the question. 

“I was still in the garden. Did something happen?” Harry felt dread unravel in him. He hadn’t seen Draco this upset in years, even with Harry’s constant baiting and jeering in spring, even with their careful friendship, even with the struggles Draco had shared with him over the past few months. 

“Mm, it’s nothing.” Draco rose, wiping away his tears and tucking his hair behind his ears. “Tea?” 

Harry nodded. They cleaned together in silence, plates clicking and water running intermittently. They picked up debris from the rooms of the house while the water boiled, straightening pillows and unsticking the lights from where they were draped along the walls. Draco called him in after a while, pouring rum into the tea when it was done steeping, adding lemon and honey. They sipped it in the garden, watching as the moon rose over the trees, hovering close to one another. 

“Lovely night,” Draco said, his hands cupped around his drink, steam curing up and around his face. His tears had dried, leaving only a telling gloss over his eyes and a shadow of a frown.

“Mm.” Harry thought the night was full of specters and ghouls, faded memories and chances left untaken.

“Do you think the veil is truly thinner tonight?” Draco looked lost, blurry and young in the dim light. 

“I hope so,” Harry chuckled softly, his mind full of his parents, of his family that was taken from him. “I’d tell them hello. I’d tell my mother hello.”

Draco gasped and shivered, and when Harry glanced at him he saw that the tears had sprung anew. “Me too,” he whispered, his gaze resolutely on the sky. 

“Your mother-” Harry began, and realization fell on him like a bucket of ice water. “Oh Draco, _when?_ Christ, I’m so sorry, _Merlin_.” They were tangled together now, a mess of limbs and hearts and tea. 

“It’s all right. I’m okay,” Draco sniffed, and he didn’t sound all right. “Everyone had been lovely, tonight was lovely. I know she had to go, people have to go.” His face was buried in Harry’s shoulder, muffled. He was too warm in Harry’s arms, unreal. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Harry just held him tighter, and the night pressed up against them, wrapping them both up in its quiet darkness.

_November 17, 2006_

When Harry kissed him for the first time, it was mostly an accident.

It was on one of those nights where Harry was struggling to leave Draco’s home. They were up late, back from the pub and chatting up a storm in the kitchen. They had talked about loss, and how it felt to be without the people who raised them. They had talked about Astoria and Narcissa, they talked about Sirius and Remus, they talked about heartbreak, about the hopelessness of it. Draco had said the old records were muggle hits from the thirties and forties, that Narcissa had hidden them from Voldemort, that she and Draco used to dance to them when his father wasn’t around, swinging around each other in ballrooms filled with morning light. Harry had said that Grimmauld held echoes of everyone who had lived there, that it scared him when it was dark and quiet, that it reminded him of a cupboard underneath the stairs. 

They also talked about the joys life held. Draco told Harry that he always looked forward to Saturday, when he could hear the church bells from down the street chime every hour. He told him that he hadn’t cried when Astoria passed, he’d just held Scorpius for hours, held him and held him, seeing her eyes and her smile in his little face. Harry told Draco about his favorite pair of socks, the ones that made him smile every time he put them on, though they weren’t particularly special. Harry talked about his patronus, about how it changed after the war, about how he used Ron and Hermione’s wedding as his happiest memory because it had been rainy and warm, a haze of messiness and perfection.

They’d talked until the small hours of morning, until the sky lightened on the horizon, until their voices had gone tired and shaky. Draco led Harry to the floo with a hand around his wrist, tiptoeing around squeaky floorboards. Tiberus meowed as they passed, and Draco shushed him softly. Harry had followed blindly, his eyes on Draco’s hair, on the Auror robes they both still wore, on the hand that rested on his arm, his skin. 

“Ta,” Harry had whispered, one hand full of dust, the other on Draco’s elbow. Draco glanced back towards the hall, anticipating his son’s uncanny ability to wake just when his father needed rest most. Harry leaned in to kiss Draco’s cheek, but he was met with lips, Draco’s reply captured between them. And then they were kissing, and Harry could barely fathom the relief of it. The tension in his shoulders released, tension he hadn’t known he held. His floo powder was forgotten, dusting the floor and staining Draco’s robes. It couldn’t have lasted more than ten seconds, but when Draco pushed him away it felt as though decades had passed, as though their entire lives had disappeared and been rewritten in the span of a heartbeat. 

“How is it-” Draco said, a flush high on his cheeks, “that you always get exactly what you want?” 

_December 31, 2006_

Their romance was just as gentle, just as cautious as it had been when they were only just friends. Harry spent most of his time in Draco’s kitchen over the next month, kissing him, holding him, revelling in the fact that they were nothing at all like Harry had expected them to be. Draco was shy and subtle and endlessly patient. Harry was full of light, he was kind and endearing and romantic. They were careful with each other, careful with the grief that hung over them sometimes, careful with the bliss.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t going back to France in January. Harry had worried over it, had begged for him to stay, telling him that he’d-

“-have nowhere to escape to without you here. Besides, I won’t miss Scorp’s first birthday. I don’t think he’d ever forgive me.” Harry tried not to grovel, but the desperation crept in anyways. Harry had pulled Draco into the coat closet at the burrow, trying to avoid a confrontation in front of their family. 

“Harry,” was Draco’s harshly whispered reply, and he rolled his eyes as Harry blundered past it. 

“No, listen. I heard you and Robards talking about it. I’ll tell him you need to stay, I’ll tell him we need you on still. You have to stay. You _have_ to.”

“Harry!” Draco was laughing at him. “Must we talk about this now? It’s fifteen till midnight.”

“Yes, we must. You can’t leave without- I won’t let you go, Draco I-”

“I’m quitting the Aurors, Harry.” Draco shrugged, and his hands found Harry’s sweater, tugged the hem of it. 

“You-”

“I’m staying in London.”

“Christ, _Merlin_ , oh-” And then they were kissing again, and Draco wasn’t leaving. 

It was, again, Hermione who found them there, clutching at each other. She looked back and forth between them, rolled her eyes and closed the closet door, took a few steps away, then came back and opened it again.

“Are you coming out to count down with us?” She asked, a smile on her lips, as though she’d just walked in on them discussing politics and not necking in the dark like school children. Harry heard Scorpius shriek with laughter from the other room.

“I suppose I could find the time,” Draco replied, cool as ever, and Harry loved him. 

They joined their family as the year turned over, a mess of shouting and joy that spilled out the open windows and into the icy night air. Harry didn’t know he could ever feel as peaceful as he did just then, the clock striking twelve, Weasleys singing, Draco holding his hand. It felt like magic. Perhaps it was. 

_January 28, 2007 -Epilogue-_

A last hurrah, they had called it. Harry had gotten a stitch in his side from laughing when Ron told him the plan, tipsy and tired. Draco had just shook his head, telling them it was a terrible idea and smiling like a contented cat. It _was_ a terrible idea. They were going to do it. 

It was icy and cold on Knockturn, and Harry felt giddy in his glamour and dragon-hide. It was an easy bust, honestly just a simple arrest, but the pomp wasn’t for the perp. It was for Draco, who was currently inside the seedy bar, mixing drinks and chatting up the magical creature smuggler who should be sitting on one of the sticky wooden stools. Harry heard his feet crunch in the half-melted snow, slippery and sludge-like. 

When he pushed the doors open, it was as if he’d been thrust back in time. Barely anything had changed in the year since Harry had been there last. Cigar smoke still clung to the air, thick and heavy, and Harry had to remind himself to breathe through the terrible urge to hurl. The clientele was still angsty and brooding, with promises of danger and contempt in their eyes. Harry ignored them.

He sidled up to the bar, right next to a burly figure who looked like he chewed on doxy bones in his spare time. Draco was talking to the man, his blond hair in a severe braid, his countenance leering and strong. As Draco spoke he threw a small bottle, caught it, then shook it thrice over the finger of alcohol and the sphere of ice in the cup. His smile was scathing. Harry wanted to devour it. 

“And I hear the weather has been good for siren hunting. Do their scales really sell for twice the amount in early spring? Fascinating,” Draco finished, twisting an orange peel over the drink and dropping it in. The perp beamed. 

“Sure do, love. My next import is coming in tonight, if you want to come back and take a look.” The man pushed his galleons across the counter, his hand hovering. “I’ve half a mind to think you’re part siren yourself, with that smile of yours.” 

Harry snorted, and Draco’s eyes didn’t hold a single spec of recognition when they turned to him. “Excuse me,” he whispered to the smuggler, then, “What would you like, Sir.”

“What are the chances that you’re in my price range?” Harry smiled as the man next to him bristled. 

“Slim to none,” Draco countered, but his mouth twitched with the effort to keep his smile in check. 

“Shame, that. Well. Vodka Martini, shaken, not stirred,” Harry could barely help the wonder he felt at his own words. So much had changed since he last said them. 

_Bonjour_ , Draco purred in his head, _Weasley, the transport comes at eight and it will be somewhere on the coast, near Folkestone._ “Right then, Mr. McDougall, you’re under arrest for smuggling magical creatures whilst on court-ordered probation. Auror Potter, feel free,” Draco said, and he waved his hand with vague nonchalance, still pouring Harry’s drink. Four Aurors were already apprehending the smuggler, stunning spells on the tips of their wands. 

“Ta, love,” Harry said, then they apparated away with a solid _crack._

-

Robards called them in not twenty minutes after they arrived back at the Ministry, his face exasperated and drawn. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, “would anyone care to tell me why we had to use a full Auror task force for a mild arrest?” 

“Of course, sir, you see…” Ron could barely stand from the laughter that shook his chest. “Sorry, _sorry_ it’s just. _Merlin_. It was so _Fun_.” 

Draco was the next to fall apart, clutching at his sides. His smile broke his face in half, and Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever witnessed that expression on him before.

“Aurors,” Robards warned, but he looked more confused than angry. 

“Yes, well,” Harry sniggered, “we wanted a good send-off for Auror Malfoy here, seeing as he’ll be leaving us for a stint, and, well… It was Ron’s idea, really.” Harry brushed his hand through his hair and knocked his hip into Draco, making him stumble into Ron. “Are we in trouble?” 

Robard’s stern disposition melted. “No, no indeed. Though, couldn’t you have just thrown a goodbye party like a normal person?” 

“Oh Senior Auror Robards,” Draco said, pulling himself together enough to talk and wipe at imaginary tears, “when in the world has Harry Potter ever acted like a normal person.” 

“Sorry,” Harry replied, his eyes zeroing in on Draco. “Just wanted to shake things up a bit.”

Draco smiled back, his own silver eyes going molten. “Consider them shaken.”

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers! Drop some Kudos and Comments at your pleasure. (If you want, you can yell at me to work on the other fics I need to finish, it might help, who knows.) Tell me what you think!! <3


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